


When the Earth Moves Again

by nurfherder



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst, Gen, M/M, Reunions, Season/Series 09, Temporary Character Death
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-16
Updated: 2013-09-16
Packaged: 2017-12-26 19:13:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,272
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/969303
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nurfherder/pseuds/nurfherder
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Castiel's phone call with Dean ends with what Castiel assumes are Dean's final words. Wandering the earth, Castiel blames himself for Dean's supposed death. But not all is lost.<br/>(Based on Season 9 preview footage and daughter-of-a-badass's theory on tumblr.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	When the Earth Moves Again

Castiel’s hands are shaking. The phone he had once held poised to his ear in terror now falls from his fingers; he does nothing to stop it.

The world has just ended. It’s ended, but nothing else seems to notice except Castiel. The trees are still standing, the ground is still steady beneath his feet; but none of these things matter. He cannot feel anything. He hears a car blasting its horn on the road somewhere behind him, and he stares at the dirt under his feet. Thousands of miles deep, worms and roots and minerals and ash. Bones. Flesh. Tucked underneath the asphalt road, leading to nowhere, paved alongside the dial tone that will not stop screaming. As if Castiel would ever pick up the phone again. As if Castiel will ever talk to Dean again.

He gasps; it’s the first sound he makes, starting and stopping as suddenly as it comes. He’s never going to talk to Dean again. Castiel stops breathing. He hears himself think those words and he shudders uncontrollably, dropping his face into his hands, shaking his head over and over again as if that could dispel the truth. Dean Winchester is dead. The sky is blue, there are birds chirping around him, and Dean Winchester is dead. He is dead, and it’s Castiel’s fault.

If he hadn’t made that phone call--if he hadn’t risked making contact--then maybe Dean would still be… How could Castiel have been so foolish? How could have have taken such a chance? He was trying to warn them--no, it was more selfish than that--he wanted to explain himself, and he wanted to see them again. He wanted to find out where Dean was and see him and touch him and tell him he had been right. He wanted to be with the Winchesters again.

But of course the angels were watching. They are always watching, listening. Human for only a week and already Castiel is tripping over himself, making foolish and clumsy mistakes. There is a death warrant out on his name, and the wires are tapped, and every angel in the country is hunting him. Hael wanted him dead; they all wanted him dead. He should have known they would soon discover the best way to truly kill him.

 _They should have come after me_ , he thinks. _It should have been me, Dean. It should have been me!_

Castiel is injured. There is blood pouring from the palm of his hand and from a roughly healed wound in his head, but his skin feels numb. Nothing hurts like the invisible hole in his chest, the place where Dean used to live. He looks down at his suit, his trench coat--no--Jimmy’s suit and trench coat. He doesn’t understand himself anymore. He is empty.

Dean Winchester is dead.

Castiel cries out and shoves the heels of his palms into his eyes--he tries not to remember the sounds he heard from the other end of the phone--he tries not to re-hear over and over again the last sounds Dean made, the last things Dean and he ever said to each other. Dean had been talking about Sam, and--

Sam.

Castiel’s eyes widen, and stares up at the sky. His stomach falls away as his despair swims slowly and steadily into numbness and shock:

Sam was in the hospital. He was unconscious. The angels took Dean; they had to have taken Sam as well. Sam Winchester must be dead.

There are no Winchesters left in this world.

Castiel does not know how he makes his way through the woods. He does not know how his trench coat becomes muddied and marred by branches, leaves, and dirt. He does not know how his feet even begin to take him onward. He finds himself in a town, and he does not know anything but his grief. He is nothing. He has no home, no place--he killed Dean, and he killed Sam. It’s his fault. Everything is his fault.

Three days later, he stumbles into a laundromat. He sees a vending machine, and he is reminded he is hungry; he is reminded he doesn’t care. He washes the suit, the trenchcoat, the socks, the tie--he puts them all together in a washing machine, and he never intends to see them again. He plucks clothing from the lost and found, wraps jackets around himself to keep warm, and he wonders why he bothers trying to stay warm at all.

Dean Winchester is dead.

Two weeks later, he huddles on the streets. He is slowly making his way towards Kansas, although he does not know why. That was where he was heading to before; he cannot seem to change his course now, though he knows nothing is waiting there for him. He panhandles and passes on what he earns. He drinks coffee and eats bread. His intestines ache and his palms are rough. The boots have made his feet bleed. He lays on the cement, and he is cold, cold, cold.

Dean Winchester is dead.

Two weeks later, Castiel shivers beneath his home in the dirt, his makeshift shelter under the crossbeams of a bridge. He thinks he hears the sound of the Impala driving past somewhere above him and gasps to think it might be real. One day after that, he is drifting in and out of consciousness on a bed of cardboard, buried under sheets of leaves, seeking peace and finding none. The heavy fall of footsteps approaches from behind and Castiel lifts his head slowly, peering through dry eyes; he doesn’t believe what he sees.

Dean Winchester. Sam Winchester. Walking towards him--seeing him--calling his name.

“Cas!”

They begin running. Dean’s eyes are blazing with fury and relief; he looks as though he cannot decide whether to cry or to yell, and Castiel’s mouth begins to smile, his eyes begin to water, because he feels the same! He feels the same as Dean, and he begins to call their names, and...

And it’s not real. Dean Winchester is dead. Sam Winchester is dead. And as Castiel’s heart sinks once again into the black, he understands that these figures are not his friends. They are ghosts, or shapeshifters, or demons, and Castiel needs to react quicker.

It’s a shame he is so weak.

The-thing-that-looks-like-Dean is at him before Castiel can do anything more than stand and try to scramble away. “Cas! Stop--”

“No, no--!” Castiel struggles, twisting as the man grabs his shoulders fast. “Let me go--!”

“Sammy!” Dean jerks his head back to his brother, and Sam reaches into his coat pocket, all of which makes Castiel thrash more.

“Cas--Cas, it’s ok--” Sam says softly, like Castiel is some wild animal. “Cas, it’s us, I promise! We’re--”

Castiel gets in one very good kick, catching the arch of Dean’s foot, making him release Castiel as he shouts in pain. Ducking out of the reach of Sam’s long arms, Castiel tries to run. He makes it ten yards before one of them grabs and catches onto his legs. Castiel falls heavy with a  _whomp!_ , knocking the wind from his chest in an injury so surprisingly foreign and human that it refuels his panic and fear. He cannot move as he is rolled over onto his back, struggling for air as the Fake-Dean suddenly sits heavy over his legs.

“No!” Castiel says again, or tries to say, still gasping for air, still trying to get free. “No--”

Dean fumbles with Castiel’s clawed hands, attempting hold them down. “Goddamn it--Cas, will you just--stop--struggling--”

Castiel calls for help, finding oxygen suddenly and feeling it rush into his lungs like ice-water. He shouts as though there were anyone to hear, his eyes staring up at the sky. “You’re dead, Dean--you’re dead! You’re dead!”

“ _What?_ ” Dean’s eyes screw up. “Sammy, you got the--?”

Sam crouches down, and Castiel sees him holding a knife and his heart is racing out of his chest--and then Sam brings the blade down onto his own skin. Holy water, silver--he practices the whole of their ritual--and Castiel cannot believe his eyes. His arms and hands go still. “It’s not possible...”

Dean pins one of Castiel’s wrists down with a knee and holds out his arm for his brother, wincing gamely as the knife cuts down his forearm and the holy water does not burn him. Dean grimaces, staring down at Castiel like fire, his voice angry. “You believe us now? Jesus Christ, Cas, we’ve been looking all over for you!”

Castiel’s jaw drops open. “But, the angels…” he says softly. “I thought… you were--”

“No Cas,” says Sam softly. “We made it out.”

Dean smirks, and Castiel can feel him easing up on the pressure, releasing him carefully to sit back on his heels. “Think I’d really die at the hands of angels? Please.”

Castiel sits up, staring between the pair of them. His eyes are wide. He doesn’t understand what he’s seeing. “Sam?”

Sam nods and smiles. “There’s been a lot going on--we’ve been trying to find you--”

Dean interrupts. “I couldn’t get you on the phone. I’ve been calling for weeks.”

“It’s in Colorado,” says Castiel softly, almost inaudible. His mouth is painfully dry, eyes still wide. “I dropped it when I thought… when I thought you were...”

And Dean smiles. He smiles and he’s beautiful. His eyes are kind, and it’s almost painful to look at him--no--it is  _absolutely_  painful to look at him. Everything is suddenly feeling and life again, and Castiel still cannot believe what he’s seeing. Dean leans his head gently to the side and stands up, holding out his hands to help Castiel up. “I’m not dead, Cas.”

Castiel looks at Dean. He looks at him hard, looks down at the hands he’s still holding, and then suddenly he throws his arms around him, burying his nose into Dean’s shoulder and breathing him in. Yes, that’s Dean. That smells like Dean, feels like Dean--everything is so brilliantly warm. “You’re  _alive_.”

“Yeah,” Dean says gruffly. Castiel can feel him hugging back, the tips of his fingers digging in against Castiel’s shoulder blades, and something bursts from Castiel then, something too much like a cry. He cannot stop. He lets go very suddenly, jerking away to peer up at the younger Winchester. “Sam! You’re alive too!”

“Yes, I--”

Sam is cut off as Castiel embraces him, and Castiel is struck wildly by how different it feels to hug Sam. He’s tall and awkward and broad, and Castiel thinks he might be hallucinating. He could be dying. Because none of this can be real. So he turns back to Dean and hugs him again, a second time, just to make sure. To remember this moment forever, the moment when the world started spinning again. “Dean…”

Dean holds him for a moment, then pats him, trying to disengage, but Castiel won’t let go. “Cas…”

“I thought I killed you.” Castiel starts rambling. “I thought by calling you, I somehow let the angels know where you were--I thought they killed you because of me, because I--”

“Cas, seriously man, get off me.”

Any doubts Castiel has that this is, in fact, the true Dean Winchester, melt away. He smiles, he laughs, and he believes enough to let go and move away. “You’re alive,” he says again. “You found me.”

“Yeah, we did.” Dean looks uncomfortable, and Castiel couldn’t care less. He couldn’t be bothered to stop staring at Dean, and he thinks that he wouldn’t mind staring at him for the rest of this small, mortal life. Dean shakes his head and glances at Sam. “Look, Cas, we gotta get you some burgers, man, you’re thin as a rail-road.”

“Rail- _spike_ ,” Sam corrects, a soft smirk playing about his lips as he watches his brother.

“Whatever. Cas, you’re coming with us, and I’m gonna stop and get you, like, thirty milkshakes, ok?”

Castiel gives a watery laugh. “Ok.”

“You’re coming home.”

“Yes. I’m glad to. Home.”

As they walk out from under that bridge together, Sam occasionally stops to help Castiel’s weakened legs to stand, and Castiel cannot stop looking at Dean. Watching as he leads the way to the Impala, the firm and tense poise of his shoulders, the stiffness with which he opens the door to the car. Castiel gets to sit shotgun, and he smiles--he wants say something, some kind of joke because he feels so suddenly and perfectly happy--but he doesn’t know what to say. As Sam moves around to the other side of the car, the tightness in Dean’s shoulders fades. He turns to Castiel, in their brief moment alone, and looks at him. “You like chocolate milkshakes?” he asks softly, their eyes staring, devouring and needing, listening to every word unspoken in the silence.

As Sam climbs into the back seat, and Dean clears his throat to turn the key in the ignition, Castiel snakes a hand across the bench seat toward Dean. “Yes, Dean. I like chocolate.”

“Ok then.”

Dean puts the car into drive and pulls them out onto the road. He reaches over, and outside the view of Sam, takes ahold of the offered hand and squeezes it tight.

Castiel has fallen asleep by the time they reach the fast food restaurant. He rests peacefully, curled up into a circle on the wide seat. He holds Dean’s hand near his lips, his thumbs resting over Dean’s wrist, pressing gently against the pulse that bounces perfectly and steadily beneath warm, living skin.

 


End file.
